Genesis
by cathrl
Summary: Jeff Tracy runs an aerospace company which has made him very, very rich. But there are some things money can't buy.


There's a story behind this one…

I'd planned to write the fourth chapter of my planned five (one for each son's introduction to IR) for In The Beginning. But it stalled, and then the plot elephant sat on my head, and told me to write this instead.

Which is very much the zeroth chapter of In The Beginning, as it is the equivalent of the other chapters for Jeff. But there's no sensible way to insert it into that story in the right place on this site. Hence it's being posted as a standalone.

The title? Well, it comes before "in the beginning"…

Many thanks to Sam and my husband for beta-reading.

**Genesis**

The morning had dawned perfect. High pressure, light winds, blue skies. A pilot's dream.

Even supervising cadet exercises couldn't completely ruin a day like this. Scott 'Rocket' Tracy had been watching jealously since shortly after dawn. The standard cadet sorties had taken forever. Time when he could have been in the air, familiarising himself with the new fighter. It wasn't selfish, he tried to persuade himself. He needed air time, if he was to train the senior students to fly it. The attraction of aerobatics in the fastest, most responsive jet in the sky had nothing to do with it. Nor did his dislike of the nursemaid duties which had come with his new posting and promotion to captain.

It was mid-afternoon before the cadets were done, and Scott was inwardly dancing with impatience as the senior officers dissected every last nuance of their performance. Couldn't they do it after it was dark?

"Captain Tracy?" Colonel Crane finally addressed him.

Scott jumped to attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Go get in the air."

He snapped off an immaculate salute, spoilt only by the broad grin. "Yes, sir!"

* * *

Just taxiing her was heaven. Scott trundled gently down towards the end of the runway, enjoying the deep rumble of power vibrating through the controls. The deserted sky above was filled with the promise of what almost everyone he knew would have considered stomach-churning hell. Scott was never happier than when he was fully inverted, preferably pulling several g's at the same time.

He'd just reached his starting point on the main runway when his helmet radio crackled. "Captain Tracy?"

_That_ wasn't what the tower was supposed to call him when he was in a plane. Not any of the variants. "Rocket here, Spider Two –"

"Get back here now. Colonel Crane's office. Out."

Scott felt his jaw drop. How? Taxi down the runway? That would make him popular with anyone waiting to land. And the taxiway he'd just come down was strictly one way only.

"Blazer Tower, Spider Two here, requesting taxi route to hangar three." He must have sounded as confused as he felt.

"Negative, Spider Two, reverse your route and park her in front of the offices. Best speed."

_What the hell have I done wrong_? Scott acknowledged the instructions, before swinging the jet around and heading back the way he had come, considerably faster. He was sweating before he reached the broad expanse of concrete in front of the buildings. He'd never heard of a cadet, much less one of the instructors, being hauled off the runway. Well, not apart from that idiot who'd decided that pre-flight checks were for wimps and had taxied out in a plane with only one working aileron. Scott couldn't think of anything he'd done even slightly wrong. They were Spider this week – he was sure of it. The other group were Muffet – whoever assigned them had a habit of using nursery rhymes for the callsigns used at the training base. Last week they'd been Black Sheep and Little Boy.

He knew he'd done the flight plan right, and signed it, and dated it, and dotted every I and crossed every T. He'd written the wrong year on one once, on the second of January, been publicly humiliated, and had checked obsessively ever since. He still had nightmares about it.

He slowed to a stop in front of the main entrance as a fellow instructor came out at a run, helmet under her arm.

"What gives?" Scott greeted her, climbing out of the cockpit onto the swept-back wing.

Karen James wouldn't look him in the eye. "Just hurry, Scott."

* * *

He took the stairs three at a time. Whatever he'd done, it must be deadly serious, and he was taking no chances of being accused of dawdling. Scott tapped on the door, and as it opened, his heart froze. He'd expected Colonel Crane, his superior officer, immaculately uniformed and stern-faced. This was Adam Crane, his father's old friend, shirtsleeves rolled up and wearing an entirely unprofessional expression of horrified sympathy. Something was dreadfully wrong.

Crane didn't keep him waiting. "Scott, I've just heard from your father. There's been an accident."

All he could choke out was, "Who?"

"Your brother Gordon. He's been brought to St Mary's. Your father's coming, but he's hours away, and Gordon's in a bad way."

_That means he's not expected to live. That means Dad wants me to go and watch Gordon die_. Scott heard his own voice, very distant, saying, "Request immediate compassionate leave, sir."

"Of course, son. Now where –"

As if on cue, a breathless trainee skidded into the office, wordlessly presenting a set of keys to Scott. He checked them on instinct. The base's one desirable – and fast – pool car.

"Right by the door, Captain," the trainee gasped.

"Good," said Crane. "Scott, take as long as you need. And if there's anything I can do…"

"Thank you, sir." Scott threw the sloppiest salute of his life and sprinted for the exit.

* * *

The one and only bright side of this posting had been his proximity to Gordon. He might be the junior officer here – not counting the trainees, for course – but his kid brother now had enough seniority to pick and choose his days off. Gordon had always been closest to Virgil, but in the past four months he and Scott had discovered more in common than they'd suspected.

Scott threw the convertible down the freeway towards the military hospital, remembering the conversation they'd had just three days earlier. Gordon had been full of his current assignment. WASP's revolutionary new hydrofoil, in its first full scale sea trials. He'd claimed it was as fast as a plane.

If there had been an accident at those speeds, the only surprise was that Gordon was alive at all.

* * *

"Sir, you can't leave your car…" receded into the distance as Scott charged into the emergency facility of St Mary's Military Hospital, San Diego.

"Lieutenant Gordon Tracy?"

"Who are you…sir?" the corporal behind the desk rapidly added.

"I'm his brother. Captain Scott Tracy, United States Air Force." Scott deposited his Air Force ID on the desk, and followed it with the keys. "Someone needs to move my car. Where's Gordon?"

The two receptionists exchanged glances, and Scott felt his chest tighten still further. "Is he…?"

"Come with me please, sir."

Scott followed him down the corridor, heart in mouth.

* * *

His first thought was that Gordon must be dead. His second, that despite all the blood, the twisted mess that was his brother's body, there wouldn't be so many people working frantically over a corpse.

He glanced again at the young man beside him at the observation window. Gordon's age, more or less, WASP uniform, junior lieutenant's stripes.

"Are you Chris Hamill?"

He jumped a mile, and the face twisted in unhappiness. "Chris didn't make it. I'm Jim Cunliffe. I was in the nearest observation boat."

"So what happened? I'm Scott Tracy."

"Gordon's brother the pilot? Man, I'm sorry. They were going fine. Real smooth. And then it just flipped. Wreckage everywhere. They were doing around four hundred knots. Lord knows how Gordon survived. Chris was dead before we got to him."

Scott continued to watch in horrified fascination. He knew very little about emergency medical care – only the basic first aid that all pilots learnt. But he could see the screens, and every line was green. That, at least, had to be good. The fact that they'd replaced the transfusion bag twice since he'd been watching was less good. As was the fact that they were still working flat out with only a curtain between them and the world, and a window where anyone could stand and watch. Surely, given any choice at all, they'd not have been displaying this much gore to the world.

He'd yet to see Gordon move at all.

* * *

It was another hour before the activity level changed. The medical teams were stepping back, and for one horrible moment Scott thought the worst. But the monitors were still flashing encouragingly, and their faces held relief rather than failure.

Scott recognised the man who came into the waiting area five minutes later as the one who'd been in charge. He'd stripped off his bloodied gloves and scrubs, and now looked as if he'd spent the day behind a desk.

"This area's supposed to be for observing medical students only," he commented, flicking the curtain across the window. "Too late now. Is either of you related?"

Jim shook his head, and Scott stood up. "I'm Gordon's elder brother, Scott." He fished in his pocket. "My ID's at the front desk."

The doctor's eyes flicked to the shoulder of Scott's flight suit. "Sit down, Captain. Your brother's stable."

Scott swallowed. "Is that good?"

"It's as good as we could expect, given his injuries. He's lost a lot of blood. Both legs have comminuted fractures to multiple bones, and the pelvis is also fractured. We're concerned about his right leg. He also has a large number of smaller surface injuries, none dangerous in themselves. A broken collarbone, several fractured ribs, and an unknown degree of concussion."

Scott winced in sympathy. "Is he conscious?"

"No, and we plan to keep him asleep for a while. Do you know anything about these sorts of injuries?"

"No. Tell me. And…what sort of fractures?"

"Comminuted means that a bone has been broken into several pieces. We can't do much to repair anything until he's stable and some of the swelling's gone down. Frankly, it's kinder if he doesn't wake up for a while."

Scott nodded, trying to memorise and process everything the doctor had said. "What's worse with his right leg?"

The doctor sighed. "Besides the comminuted fractures, there is severe damage to the tissue structures. We may not be able to save it."

"You can't amputate it! He's a swimmer!"

"I watched that Olympic final." The doctor smiled reassuringly. "We'll do our best for him, don't worry. Now I think they're ready to transfer him to intensive care. Stay here, and they'll send for you when he's settled."

If asked, Scott would have said he remembered almost nothing about hospitals. Those awful last weeks before his mother's death had faded into a blur. Now, though, things were coming back. Not memories as such. Just feelings, about how this wasn't quite right. Waiting room chairs were higher, such that he couldn't sit properly and touch the floor. Doctors were taller, and always spoke to someone else. The walls here were the wrong colour – they should be white, not green. The endless waiting, though, that was just the same.

"Captain Tracy?" His memory of nurses was different, too. They'd all been old.

"Yes?"

She handed him his abandoned ID and car keys. "You can come and see your brother now."

Scott jumped to his feet, and as an afterthought turned to Gordon's WASP colleague. "I'll make sure you're informed if there's a change, if you want to get back." He'd seen a fair few surreptitious glances at the clock, and there was nothing more the young man could do here.

The young man nodded – not trusting his voice, Scott suspected. He cleared his throat, and blurted out, "I hope he'll be okay!" before bolting for the door.

* * *

Okay. Well, that depended on your definition of okay. They had at least made him a little less gory. Gordon lay very still in the high bed, more tubes than the average jet engine snaking in under the sheets, and an assortment of fluid bags hung above his head. The monitors were still pipping away cheerfully, and a nurse was doing whatever ICU nurses did to one of the needles in the back of Gordon's right hand.

"Mary?" said his guide. "This is Captain Tracy, Lieutenant Tracy's brother."

The woman smiled at him, and Scott was strangely reassured that she was older than he was.

"I'm the nurse in charge of this bed, so I'll be taking care of your brother on the afternoon shift for the next while. Lieutenant Jones, though we generally use first names in here to keep the atmosphere relaxed, so call me Mary. Now, I guess you want to know what we've got Gordon hooked up to?"

Not really, he didn't. At least only enough to know when to yell for help if they started flashing or making strange noises. He stood and listened, though, trying to remember a whole new set of acronyms. Gordon was going to demand to know what every last one was for, when he woke up. Scott refused to even consider that the correct word might be 'if'.

"You can talk to him, if you like," the nurse was telling him. "It's a good idea, really. You don't have to be horrified."

He got his face back under control. "I'm sure it is. I was just thinking it's unusual for Gordon to be the quiet one."

"Are you two close?"

"Not really. Well, physically. I'm stationed just up the road."

She cast an eye over the flight suit. "The training base? You look too old to be a cadet."

"I am – I'm an instructor." He considered shutting up, but vague memories of hearing about unconscious patients being aware of familiar voices kept him talking. "I've been stationed up there for a few months. I'm Scott, by the way."

"That's excellent," she said, and he suspected she meant his talking rather anything he'd said. She made another careful check. "Just making sure you're not bleeding, Gordon. You can stay asleep. So, Scott, is it going to be just you? If so, you should go get some food while the canteen's open."

Scott shook his head. "Father's on his way."

"Anyone else?"

He opened his mouth to answer, and stopped. He had no idea whether the rest of the family even knew. Virgil was in Denver, John in Florida. He wasn't quite sure about Alan, who was most of the way through a NASA-sponsored degree that consisted largely of placements. He had a suspicion that right now he was in New York. Grandma would be devastated and would want to be here as soon as possible. But he simply didn't know whether his father would have called them, or was expecting Scott to do it. It was a mark of how shocked he was that this was the first time he'd even thought about them.

Silence. Not good.

"Yes, but they're all a fair distance away." He glanced nervously at the still figure in the bed. "Can he really hear me?"

"Words, no. Tone of voice, emotions. If you need to get angry or upset, don't do it in here."

"No, not that." Scott was known for his utter calm, his level-headedness in the face of disaster. He had the medals to prove it. "I don't know when the others will be here, that's all. I wasn't sure if it was a good idea to say it."

"It's fine. There's no hurry for huge crowds of people to come, and we wouldn't let large numbers in here anyway. One or two familiar voices talking calmly is plenty."

Scott nodded. "I get it. It's just – it's hard for me to talk to Gordon this way. He'd be great at it, if it was the other way round."

"In that case, why not talk to me?" She smiled, utterly competent and very reassuring. "Tell me who these others are."

* * *

"Now hold on a minute," she said a while later. "'Tracy', and those names – doesn't your father own, like, half of Manhattan?"

"Not that much." Scott clammed up again, looking desperately at his watch. He hated feeling helpless – and for the only thing he could do for his brother to be to talk? This wasn't him at all. Anything else. Any hardship, any physical effort, he'd go through without a murmur for Gordon, or for any of his brothers. Sitting here was hell, and his father wouldn't be here for…

He felt his jaw drop as the man himself hurried through the door. "Dad! How did –"

"Later, Scott." Jeff Tracy stood looking down at his son, face unreadable. "How is he?"

Mary, a distinct tone of awe in her voice, ran through the list of Gordon's injuries again. It didn't sound any better the second time around. Just the thought of that many broken ribs made Scott wince. Much as he'd have liked to see Gordon wake up, he cringed to think how much even his more minor injuries were going to hurt when he did.

"Dad," he said softly, "do the others know?"

"Mother does, but she can't fly for medical reasons just now. Nothing serious. Your brothers don't know yet."

"No?"

"Disagreements go outside," Mary murmured, and Jeff nodded, jerked his chin towards the door, and walked out.

Scott turned to him the moment the door was shut. "Dad, how could you not –"

"Only you could have got here in time." He didn't say in time for what, but it was obvious. "Why don't you go and call them now? I'll sit with Gordon."

_Why me_? Scott wondered as he made his way to the communication booths in the front lobby. The answer presented itself. _Because they'll think that Father would be the one calling if it was serious. Which is a real dirty trick, because it _is_ serious_.

_Not fatal, though. His friend died. He didn't, and he isn't going to. And they'll have plenty of time to come visit_. Scott considered that laundry list of injuries again. _Plenty_ of time.

Virgil answered within five seconds.

"Virgil Tracy speaking – hey, Scott!" Two seconds pause. "What's wrong?"

Like he could hide anything from Virgil. "Gordon's had an accident."

"What? Hold on." There was a brief conversation about pausing an experiment with someone just out of view. "Okay. What did Gordo do this time?"

"Flipped a hydrofoil at four hundred knots. Smashed himself up real good." He tried to keep his voice light, but saying it out loud made it all the more real.

"Crap." Virgil's eyes went wide. "How bad is he?"

"You name it, he's broken it." Scott leant against the side of the booth, desperately wishing Virgil was here and knowing it made no sense. "They're keeping him asleep for a while."

"Right, I'm coming. Where are you?"

"San Diego – no, Virg, not yet. I'm here, and Father. It makes more sense if you come later on."

"But –"

"Please, Virgil. I hate fighting with you, and I still have to call John and Alan. He'll need people later. We can't all burn our goodwill now."

Virgil slowly nodded. "Okay. Say, why not let me call Alan? He can't exactly give me a hard time, since I'm not there either."

"Oh, man. Would you?"

"Sure. Go call John. I'll speak to you later."

Getting through to John proved more of a problem. Virgil might carry a cellphone at all times, but NASA astronauts weren't permitted personal communication devices when working any more than USAF pilots were. Scott very quickly ran into a brick wall. John was currently sealed inside a mock deep space capsule in a simulated flight. NASA were prepared to pull him out, of course – but not to just tell him. And Scott knew how hard John had worked to get this far. He'd set his heart on qualifying as a pilot, like their father, not a mission specialist – something people _never_ did without a background as a military pilot. Scott didn't doubt that his younger brother had the talent and determination, but he knew firsthand just how little it took to be less desirable than the hundreds of pilot candidates out there.

John not knowing for the next week that Gordon had been hurt wouldn't matter at all to Gordon. Being the reason John didn't get his astronaut's wings would. Scott left a message for John to call the moment he got it, and went back to the ICU.

* * *

"He's doing very nicely." Dr Grey wore a reassuring smile which Scott had grown all too used to in the past three days. "Most of the fractures are stable, and the ribs are starting to knit."

"That's great." Jeff's eyes locked with the doctor's. "When are you going to do something about his right leg?"

"There's still too much swelling – "

"Now don't you pull that crap with me." Jeff's voice rose only slightly, but contained an edge of steel. "I've done my research. With today's medicine, there's no way that should still be unrepaired."

"Colonel Tracy –"

"That's Mr."

"If you prefer. Mr Tracy, I am doing everything I can to save your son's leg. By all means call in a second opinion. Everyone I've asked has told me to amputate."

Whatever else Jeff had planned to say drained away as he sagged, looking every one of his fifty-four years. "Go on."

"What's unusual in your son's case, why I think it's worth continuing, is that his injury was caused by hitting the water. Normally that type of injury would be severely contaminated and we'd be fighting infection. As it is, his best chance of keeping the leg is external fixation. There are better surgeons than me for a case this complex, but they're all based on the east coast. Gordon's not well enough for a long distance transfer yet."

"I understand." Jeff took a deep breath, and Scott could see the decisions being made. "Tell me what would happen in an ideal world."

"An ideal world? I'd still wait a few more days for the swelling to continue to resolve. Then I'd fly in Dr Patil's team from Johns Hopkins, and have them operate. They're the leading experts in the field. But –"

"Expect a phonecall." Jeff was out of his seat and gone before the startled consultant could react. Instead, he asked Scott.

"What does your father plan to do? Gordon genuinely can't be flown out there."

Scott looked at the floor. He knew that look on his father's face. Jeff Tracy was richer than many countries. Could, quite literally, buy anything he wanted – and yet he still felt guilty about using that wealth to get medical attention for his son. Scott understood. Bringing in a surgical team for Gordon would mean those men weren't treating their own patients. Money couldn't make help for those in need. It could only reassign it. Gordon would get the best treatment available, and as a result someone else's son would go without.

* * *

"He is doing extremely well." The distinguished surgeon had to look steeply up to make eye contact with Jeff. Just behind and to his right, Dr Grey hovered respectfully. Scott had the impression that he didn't quite believe this was happening. Since Jeff had arranged to have the surgeons flown in, three days ago (or was it four?), Grey had nervously mentioned having Gordon moved to a private facility on several occasions. Jeff had no intention of doing anything of the sort, not when Gordon was already in a military hospital of this calibre and moving him had no medical benefit, but Dr Grey seemed to have problems appreciating that someone with that much money might not choose to pay simply because he could.

"What did you do?" Scott asked. He knew he'd been told before, but his brain was full of fuzz today. He couldn't remember what he'd been told they might do, what they'd decided not to do, and what the final plan had been. Lack of sleep did that to you. He'd watched Gordon most of last night, after Jeff had admitted that he could barely keep his eyes open. His father must have had at least six hours sleep last night. He didn't look a whole lot better for it.

Patil gave him a sympathetic look, surely used to sleep-deprived relatives asking questions multiple times even when they had already been answered. "We inserted pins and wires into all salvageable bone fragments in Gordon's leg. The fragments have been realigned, and an external frame is holding them in place." He flicked back the blanket which covered the support over Gordon's lower body, and both Scott and Jeff stood and stared.

So far, everything had been very clean and clinical – at least since that grisly first hour in the emergency room. Scott had more or less wiped those images from his mind. Now they were reawakened. If anything, this was worse. The sheer mess of the surface damage – scabbed abrasions, still open deeper wounds, hardly an inch of tissue not showing the purpling of severe bruising – was horrifying. Scott tried to focus on the spiderweb of wires emerging from the lump of raw meat that was his brother's right leg, and failed. His stomach gave a warning flip, and he bolted for the door.

* * *

"Virg, I can't do this," he finished unhappily. "They're going to let him wake up tomorrow, and I can't be all cheerful about it. It's going to take forever for him to mend, if he ever does. He'll never swim another race. He'll probably never walk again. Everything he wanted to be has gone. How do I tell him something like that? He's barely even started with his career and it's over."

Virgil was silent, but just seeing his face on the communications screen made Scott feel better. He knew his brother understood.

"Maybe Alan?" he suggested. "They're closer."

Virgil shook his head. "Alan's got a horrible cold, and besides, he's eighteen. Eighteen, Scott. The chances of him saying the right thing are zero."

"You're right." Scott sighed. "I'll try to be cheerful."

Virgil coughed, a sound suspiciously like a laugh. "You're going to go in there when he's doped to the gills and tied to the bed and be cheerful? That's what Alan would do. Gordon will think he's going to die if you try it."

"He will?"

"I would. I'd want you to be you. Though it's not like you to be freaked out by blood."

Scott stiffened. "I am not freaked out by blood!"

"No, you're not. But something happening, something life-changing which you can't fix? You hate being out of control like that. Don't try to pretend things are okay. They're not. Just remind him you're there for him. We all are."

He finally managed a smile. "I might manage that."

* * *

Scott woke to the sound of his father snoring. For a moment he wondered why they were sharing a room, and then he sat up, fully aware, frowning to himself. Jeff had said he'd sit with Gordon for a couple of hours, then come and wake Scott to take over their vigil. No sleeping in the ICU – that had been made very clear to them. Sitting with Gordon at any time was fine. But there wasn't the room, or the time, for the staff to work around sleeping relatives. Jeff had pulled strings, and an unused storage room just large enough for a couple of camp beds had been made available.

Jeff must have decided Scott needed the sleep. Or something. He snorted and shifted position, and Scott silently slipped on his jacket and went out into the corridor, shoes in hand. Out here it could have been any time of day or night, lit by an institutional fluorescent glare which never changed. Scott leant against the wall while his eyes adjusted to the light, then looked at his watch.

Two-thirty a.m. He'd had far more sleep than the couple of hours he'd been expecting. Scott turned back, and stopped, his hand on the handle. He'd seen his father getting more and more exhausted as the days passed, even as Scott had made excuses to take more of the night shifts himself. Waking him would be cruel. They'd discuss why he hadn't woken Scott, if he couldn't stay awake himself any longer, in the morning. It was definitely time to call Virgil in.

Quite how he'd persuade Jeff that he wasn't capable of doing more himself was another matter. Maybe Grandma could do it, via the videophone. She insisted her swollen leg was only minor, that it had only been a trip and not a fall at all, but her doctor had somehow been forceful enough about the risks of flying to keep her grounded for at least another week. It was probably just as well. Grandma was closer to eighty than seventy, and not very good at accepting her limitations. Scott suspected it ran in the family.

In any case, his night's sleep was over. He headed for Gordon's bedside via the water fountain. Maybe having something to drink would wake him up a bit.

* * *

He'd spent a great many hours in the ICU chair recently. Uncomfortable low upright back and wooden arms, with an insufficiently padded seat made from extremely fake leather. He had a deep suspicion that it was deliberately uncomfortable, intended to make sure relatives got up and walked around on a regular basis. Now, though, he just wanted to sit quiet and try to persuade his body that it was nearly as good as sleep. He glanced down the ward, caught the eye of the duty nurse – it was Lieutenant Tomlinson, or Caroline, tonight – and sat down heavily. She was filling in paperwork, and he had a sudden realisation as to what had happened. Standard cleaning-up at two in the morning. Visitors were asked to leave for a few minutes. Jeff must have come back and lain down on his bed just for a moment, and crashed. Scott liked that explanation far more than the one where his father had decided sleep was more important than not leaving Gordon alone.

"Hi, Gordo," he said casually. "Feeling any different now you're off the drugs? Maybe we could swap for a bit. I could use some good quiet sleep."

He paused. Expect them to answer you and there's a greater chance they will, the nurses had told him. Natural pauses in the conversation. Initially, he'd felt a complete fool. Now it was second nature.

"Ah well, I guess it's the chair for me." He stretched out, already uncomfortable. "You'll never guess what Dad's doing right now."

Paused again. Had that been a faint sound? Caroline was just opening a new file, and he decided that it must have been her.

"Snoring his head off. You'd best wake up soon, Gordo. I could really use a full night's sleep in a real bed."

This time there was a sound, no question. A very faint chuckle – and then a high-pitched, thready whimper.

"Gordon?" He was on his feet peering into his brother's face before he'd fully processed what he'd heard…and Gordon's eyes were open. Just barely, and his face was a mask of pain.

"Scott?" It was desperate and barely audible, but it was enough to snap him into action. Scott was turning, ready to shout 'Lieutenant!' in defiance of the ICU's policy on calm and quiet, when suddenly she was there on the other side of the bed.

"Gordon, I know it hurts. Stay calm for me. The doctor's coming."

Gordon just groaned, and Scott put a hand on his, hoping that wouldn't hurt him worse. "How long?"

"Seconds," she said confidently. "Easy there, Gordon. You've been hurt; you're in hospital. Just breathe steady."

"Can't…"

"Doctor's almost here, she'll give you something to help."

Caroline must have hit a general alarm, because the woman entering the ICU at close to a run stopped and glanced around before heading to Gordon's bed. Scott belatedly realised that he was going to be in the way and backed off, flattening himself against the wall. He had no idea how much of his surroundings Gordon was aware of, but he wasn't going to leave him now.

There was a brief, quiet discussion between doctor and nurse, ten seconds at most, and then adjustments were made to the bags of clear fluid on the stand.

"Hang in there, son," the doctor reassured Gordon. "Not long. This should help with the pain." She peered into Gordon's eyes. "Better?"

"Yes." It was an unhappy croak, and Scott's gut twisted in sympathy. Gordon might have been unconscious for however many days it was now, but it was nowhere near long enough for his injuries to be less painful.

"Good to have you back with us, son," the doctor said, and that 'son' got Scott's mind working again. Father, fast asleep down the hall.

* * *

He knew Jeff wouldn't expect pleasantries. Scott simply flicked the lightswitch on, and as Jeff sat up, blinking and yawning in the glare of the bare bulb, he kept it simple.

"Gordon's awake. The doctor's with him now."

Jeff was gone without so much as bothering to put his shoes on, and Scott sat down on the camp bed and let his mind whirl. His worst nightmares seemed to be over, at least. Gordon had known who he was. That seemed to rule out all the most ghastly forms of brain damage. The physical damage – well, time would tell.

He wandered back towards the ICU, but stopped at the door. The lights were on now, medical staff all around Gordon's bed. Jeff was at the head, hand on Gordon's forehead, and for the first time since he'd come to the hospital, he was smiling.

Scott found himself doing the same, as he turned away and headed for the communications booths. He suspected that, just this once, Virgil wouldn't mind being woken in the middle of the night.

* * *

"Wake up, sleepyhead. I even brought you coffee!"

Scott forced his eyes open. "Virg? You can't be here yet."

"Why not? It's nearly ten. I guess you haven't had much sleep recently?"

"Not exactly." Scott sat up, rubbing sticky eyes. He'd gone back to the ICU after calling Virgil and John…and getting Alan's voicemail. He'd barely been able to see Gordon's bed for busy medical staff, and had gone to lie down just for a few minutes until things quietened down.

Apparently that had been a little over seven hours ago.

"Gordon? Dad?"

"Gordon's sleeping like a baby. Dad's with him. Real sleep, not coma. They kept him awake for a couple of hours just to be sure. You weren't kidding about him being a mess, were you?"

"I really wasn't." He reached out and found himself the owner of a rather more sophisticated coffee cup than the flimsy paper the hospital vending machines spat out. "Where did you get decent coffee?"

"Coffee place just down the street. You didn't find it?"

"I haven't been out of the front door since I got here." He wrapped his hands round the cup, removed the lid, and let himself think of nothing except how good real coffee smelt and tasted.

"I must look like hell," he said three minutes later when the coffee was gone.

"You had other things to worry about. But no, sweatpants really aren't your style. Where did you get them from anyway?"

"I think Father had someone bring clothes in. Or maybe Grandma called someone to do it." He really wasn't sure. Clothes hadn't mattered, not with Gordon lying still and pale in that bed. He'd showered because it was a hospital and it was expected, and had put on the clean clothes he'd found on his camp bed because they were there. He hadn't shaved, though. He didn't think Jeff had either.

"You should go home," Virgil said.

"What? No. Not until I know Gordon's okay."

"He won't be okay for months." Virgil's tone was calm, matter-of-fact, and very obviously rehearsed. "He's going to sleep most of today and tomorrow and probably a lot longer, in between the medics doing tests they throw us out for anyway. I'm here. Father's here. Go home, sleep in your own bed, get some real food and a shave, come back Sunday for a visit. You're done in, Scott. You look awful."

"Father –"

"Father says you've been with Gordon night and day. He doesn't know how you kept going."

"He's my brother. I had to."

"Well, now you don't have to any longer. Someone else's turn. I'm serious, Scott. How far is it back to Boyd from here?"

"Twenty minute drive at the legal limit. I think I got here in twelve."

Virgil laughed. "No question, then. Go take a proper break. Do you have a car here?"

Scott nodded. "I do. Every officer at Boyd will be cursing me. Their best pool car's been sitting outside here for…how long? What day is it?"

"It's Friday. Does that make my point for how bad you need a break? Are you even fit to drive?"

"I'll be fine." He wouldn't have trusted himself to fly, but a steady twenty minutes up the freeway wouldn't be an issue. And the thought of a real mattress and a bed with sheets…

"Come on," said Virgil. "Say goodbye to Gordon on your way out."

* * *

Jeff was sitting in the chair alongside Gordon's bed, eyelids close to drooping, when they entered the ICU. He jerked to full alertness as they approached. Gordon didn't stir, but there was more colour in his face than there had been, and he looked somehow different. He just looked asleep now, head slightly on one side. His eyelids were twitching. Perhaps that was it.

"Did you talk to him?" Jeff said softly to Virgil.

"Yes. It's fine."

"Good." Jeff stood up, caught Scott's eye in a way which made it clear that this was for him only, and led him outside into the corridor.

"You know I'm not getting rid of you, son?"

"I'm fine." Scott grimaced. "And I could use the rest. Plus, I can't take compassionate leave forever. I'll need to be back on duty Monday, and to be awake for it. Tell Gordon I'm sorry for abandoning him."

"I'll tell him you've been at his bedside night and day, when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer." Jeff yawned. "I'm not as young as I was. I need to step back and let you boys run the show more than I have been."

Scott went cold. What show? Tracy Enterprises? But Jeff had continued.

"Nine to five is all very well, but night time vigils? Days at a stretch without sleep? I knew I couldn't run marathons any more, but I hadn't realised to what extent my stamina's gone. I'm beyond glad you've been here, Scott. You've been there for Gordon, and you've made a lot of other things clearer for me."

Scott said nothing, since he had no idea what his father meant. Exhaustion talking, he suspected. He hoped so. He had no desire to be a businessman any time soon.

Jeff clapped him on the shoulder. "Anyway. You go get yourself back to Boyd. Virgil and I can handle things here, and I have a bunch of patent issues to discuss with him while Gordon's sleeping. We'll call you later on and let you know how Gordon's doing."

* * *

Scott found the car relatively easily, parked in one of the visitor's spots out front. The ticket on the dash brought up a rather large sum of money when inserted into the barrier, but Scott wasn't worried. As far as he was concerned, the hospital could have every penny he owned. They'd given them Gordon back, and that was priceless.

The sun shone, the sky was blue, and as he drew near to Boyd, three jets screamed overhead. Scott squinted as they vanished into the distance. Not the greatest formation flying he'd seen – the jet in number three position was just a little too close, and the lead was higher than the other two. Someone needed to pull them up on it. It would probably be him.

He turned into the parking lot with a sigh. Back to work. At some point, he'd get to fly the new jet, but it wouldn't be just yet. There would be piles of paperwork for him to catch up on, and all the red tape associated with instructing would doubtless have tied itself in knots in his absence. He'd much rather have been flying.

* * *

Author's note: I have an embarrassing admission to make here. Sam pointed out to me while beta-reading that San Diego actually has a real hospital much like my imaginary St Mary's: the Naval Medical Center San Diego. Except that, wouldn't you know it, they are leading experts in the type of orthopaedic surgery Gordon needs and which my plot requires not be available locally. I decided it was preferable to have them not exist in this story than to present them as not competent to do something which in real life they are very, very good at.


End file.
